


Between His Last Night Dream

by zuzeca



Series: The Pillars of the Temple [1]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Angst, Bodyswap, Dubious Consent, Ghost Sex, M/M, Sticky Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-12
Updated: 2012-10-12
Packaged: 2017-11-16 03:30:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/535000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zuzeca/pseuds/zuzeca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trapped in the body of his enemy, Megatron learns more than he ever wanted. Optimus/Bumblebee (Megatron)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Between His Last Night Dream

**Author's Note:**

> An old, angsty, introspective porn fic I wrote to celebrate the end of a crappy week and the premier of the episode “Out of His Head." Most of this is supposed to take place within the liminal space between “Sick Mind” and “Out of His Head”. I took a bit of…license with the whole possession shtick, but it was for ~~the porn~~ the greater good. Enjoy.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own _Transformers_ , all characters are property of their respective copyright holders. I am making no profit from this work of fiction.

Despite the burning temptation to begin wreaking immediate and subtle havoc upon his unsuspecting foes from his sheltered vantage point, for the first few megacycles Megatron did little but observe. He knew well enough that information strained from the processor of the small scout could prove invaluable upon his escape. Might tip the struggle in his favor.

Furthermore, he was curious.

It was an intriguing exercise, observing his enemies. The scout didn’t seem to notice his presence, though it remained to be seen if this would continue to hold true, and so he sat back to watch as the mech interacted with his peers and superiors. The interplay between the small group of mechs and organics was less harmonious than he might have suspected, given Prime’s endless boring speeches on peace and working together, and yet regardless of the petty squabbles, they still seemed to be able to pull themselves together into a working unit.

The solar cycle ended and the scout made the journey to return his tiny irritating organic to its home. Zipping along the roads didn’t compare to the freedom of flight, but he was able to piggyback onto the scout’s sensors and enjoy the rush of true movement, even as he tracked their position to allow him to find his way back later.

The base was quiet, the lights dimmed to night cycle and the main room empty but for the medic at the console. He murmured a greeting at the scout as he passed, heading for his berth, further inside the mountain.

They’d almost reached the room when something caught both their attention. The sounds of ventilation, low and rapid, a shadow, paused in the corridor, hand braced against the wall. 

Prime.

He was hardly surprised. They’d obviously treated the other mech with the cure, snatched from his own processor no less, or he’d no longer be functioning, but he was far from healed. Cybonic plague worked quickly, wearing out systems and sending the infected mech into a fatal crash within cycles. But he’d tested the virus exhaustively, on Autobot prisoners, to make sure it could be cured. He knew its mutations, its manifestations. Even among treated mechs, it wasn’t uncommon for there to be tremors, weakness and slight processor scrambling for several solar cycles past the danger zone. Mild heat retention was also often an issue. Many of the post-infection symptoms could be alleviated by recharge and consumption of additional coolant, but obviously none of Prime’s pitiful crew would be aware of that.

Something squirmed uncomfortably in his processor at the sight of his enemy’s weakness. Though he’d longed for millennia to sink his claws into that broad chassis and bring Prime to his knees, to see him trembling in the aftermath of sickness seemed _wrong_ somehow. The idea that his oldest enemy could be deactivated by something so…base.

Perhaps it was merely the comprehension of the total length of their association. He might be able to claim responsibility for much of what made Prime who he was today, but if he was honest Optimus had shaped him as well. Oldest enemy, oldest disciple, oldest friend.

Oldest lover.

For the first time he found himself wondering what it would truly feel like if he had managed to deactivate the other mech.

The clank of plating roused him from his reverie. Prime seemed to have overcome his moment of weakness and was moving down the corridor. As he and the scout watched, the other mech disappeared into his berth room.

They held still for a few more moments and then the scout turned into his own room, leaving Megatron to stew in the back of his processor.

Several megacycles later, he learned that his host’s state of recharge had no effect on his own.

Since recharge proved impossible, it seemed as good a time as any to test the limits of his power. Greatly daring, he reached out, brushed past his host’s slumbering processor, stretched for the scout’s limbs…and slipped into his plating as easily as a new alt mode.

Delighted, he rose from the berth, flexing blunt fingers and stretching short limbs. There was a slight disorientation as his processor tried to adjust to a smaller frame, but despite the disconnect he found himself able to walk and move with little difficulty. 

The halls were dark; it must be near the graveyard watch by now. On silent feet he began to move towards the main room, but then the open door of a storage closet caught his eye. Bottles of coolant, large and stacked high, filled the doorway, gleaming white in the darkness.

His optics flicked back in the direction of the main room and he hesitated.

Grumbling, he snatched up a bottle, unscrewed the top, opened the scout’s coolant tank and dumped a bit into it. He nearly purged it back onto the floor. Organic alcohols and dihydrogen monoxide. The disgusting substance must have been manufactured by the fleshlings.

But regardless of its revolting nature, it appeared to be acceptable as a coolant substitute. Tucking the jug beneath his arm, he headed in the direction of Optimus’s room. 

He found himself giving thanks for the scout’s damaged vocalizer. Limited to the simplest of their dialects, it was far less likely that any changes to his voice and speech pattern would be detected. Pausing outside the room, he rapped on the lintel.

“Enter.”

Optimus was seated on his berth. Optics shuttered and blinked at him, “Bumblebee.” His tone was surprised, “I was not expecting you. Is something amiss?”

He hefted the bottle, _“I thought you might appreciate some coolant.”_ Remembering his position, he hastily added, _“Sir.”_

The other mech relaxed marginally, “I see. Thank you, my systems have been a bit too warm for comfort. I assumed it would pass soon.”

He shrugged in an attempt to imitate the scout’s nonchalant manner, _“It probably will, but maybe the coolant will help?”_

“Of course.” 

He passed the bottle over and turned for the door, meaning to depart immediately, but then Prime was patting the berth beside him, “Please, sit.”

He could have excused himself. Prime was not the type of commander to who required compliance to his every whim. It was foolish to obey. But he found himself fascinated by the sight of his enemy in such a quiescent state. Even when they had been allies, their interactions were always intense. They were simply both too strong of spark. It drove them to push back and forth, constantly testing and pressing until one or the other yielded. Most often Optimus, but he could recall a few instances in their association when he’d roused the gentle mech such that he’d found himself overcome. His processor hummed at the pleasant thought as he settled down, and one of the scout’s cooling fans clicked on briefly. Feigning ignorance of the gaffe, he turned to the other mech.

Prime was watching him, expression unreadable.

He repressed the urge to shift in sudden discomfort, _“Sir?”_

“Are you…well, Bumblebee?”

 _“Of course, sir.”_ He groped briefly for the medic’s designation. _“Ratchet checked me over himself.”_

Optimus let out a slow, even ventilation, “Of course. It is nothing more than the foolish worrying of an old mech. Pay it no mind.” Popping the lid off the jug of coolant, he took a long draft. 

_An old mech?_ He couldn’t say he’d ever given Prime’s age a thought, but here, despite the grace and control with which he held himself, he did seem older, somehow. And if Optimus was old, then what did that make him?

_“Why do you ask?”_

“No reason in particular. Perhaps…the cortical psychic patch was never a technique approved for use.”

It was an evasion, but he let it pass and reached for the proper, Autobot response, _“Any of your soldiers would give up their sparks in exchange for yours.”_

Optimus’s fingers tightened around the jug, “And I endeavor to be worthy of such loyalty.”

The words were expected, but they came down with the force of a blow. Rage welled up in him, a suffocating tide shot through with despair. _And what part of me did you find wanting, Prime? What in me did you find unworthy of your loyalty?_

Trembling, he drew a slow, controlled breath through the scout’s vents, trying to quiet a variety of systems spiking in response to his fury.

“Bumblebee?”

The expression of concern on Prime’s face made him want to purge his tanks, _“I am well, sir. I am not the one who was near deactivation a few megacycles ago.”_

Optics widened with understanding and Optimus reached for him.

It was likely nothing more than a gesture of comfort, but the moment those fingers touched the scout’s plating, something cracked. He lunged for the other mech, blunt fingers scrabbling for purchase, slipping where his claws would have hooked and held.

A low, startled sound escaped Optimus as they tumbled back against the berth, but he paid it no heed. He _wanted_. If he’d been in his own body he would have beaten the mech within a micron of his miserable life, so as to never let him forget to whom he belonged. _Insufferable fool! To dare allow yourself to be defeated by a—!_ This small, rounded form stood him no chance in a head-on assault, but there were other ways.

He pressed himself close, venting low and hot, plates grinding together with the shriek of stressed metal, _“Optimus, sir, please…”_

For a moment he thought Prime would refuse, stoic slagger that he was, but then his arms came up and drew him down against that broad chassis, “Easy, Bumblebee.”

But he was already squirming free, clawing his way down that long body. He groped for the plating covering Optimus’ interface hatch and he vented sharply in response.

“Bumblebee—”

_“Let me—”_

It chafed him, this waiting, curbed by the knowledge that he couldn’t physically bend Prime to his will. But at last Optimus relaxed back against the berth, and there was something infinitely beautiful in that quiet surrender.

 _Give over to me. That is all I ask. That is all I have_ ever _asked._

He slid down between the narrow legs, stroked the seam of the pelvic plates. _Open._ They slid back, exposing the interface array to his gaze.

He caught the spike as it tried to pressurize, pushing it back. Optimus started, but didn’t protest the manipulation. Dragging the scout’s blunt fingers through the lubricant which coated the array, he slipped a hand down to the valve and delved inside.

Optimus twitched and moaned, a subsonic rumble which rattled through his chassis and buzzed against the scout’s plating, sparking a slight harmonic resonance against his internals.

Pleased at the response, he pressed further, twisting his fingers, seeking out sensor clusters as Optimus jerked beneath him. _How long has it been, Optimus, since you have taken another to berth? One of your soldiers, perhaps? Would you have told them you prefer this even if you had?_

“Bumblebee, this isn’t—”

Leaning forward, he vented cool air across the warming valve, cutting off the last word. The valve contracted sharply around his fingers and the other mech convulsed, a spark-deep shudder which gripped his body and rattled their plating.

_Proper? Necessary? Keep telling yourself that, Optimus._

The sheer consuming satisfaction of his enemy beneath him was drugging. The scout’s spike was bumping against his pelvic plating, struggling to pressurize, but he ignored it, working Optimus with single-minded desperation. Sense-memory bubbled to the surface, guiding his fingers, as though they’d never left this berth, as though the yawning abyss of millennia and ideology between them was nothing.

Then at last, a low cry, bitten off, a spark of electricity between his fingers and the valve clamped down, impossibly tight, halting his movements. Triumph surged through him at the feel of those rippling contractions.

_Whatever your processor has to say on the matter, Optimus, some part of you will always be mine._

He allowed his helm to rest on Optimus’s thigh and offlined the scout’s optics, listening to the clink of cooling systems as the other mech recovered.

“Megatron.”

He went rigid, processor icing over. Had he given himself away? Some action or nuance of his manner? _Impossible, he couldn’t—_ But Optimus was already speaking.

“I should not ask, but…when you…did he—?” He cut himself off, “Never mind, I suppose it does not matter any longer.”

Hesitant, he found himself reaching for the periphery of Optimus’s chassis, overcome with the strange desire to touch, _“I…cannot claim to speak for him, but I think, even in that dark place, he still thought of you.”_

Almost imperceptibly, Optimus sagged against the berth, “I see.”

A response which told him everything and nothing, made him want to rip Prime’s spark chamber out and bury himself again within the space of that beloved body.

“Regardless, I did not mean to neglect you. Come here.”

Long fingers were already seeking the apex of his legs as he realized what Optimus meant. Despite the system shock, the scout’s interface array still buzzed with charge, and even a gentle caress over his pelvic plating served to part it, spike pressurizing in a rush that sent a wave of disequilibrium though him.

For a moment he felt the strange urge to protest, to pull back, but then Optimus was moving, shifting the scout’s small body as though it were nothing and opening to him, enfolding him. He slid inside, into that snug space, warm and slick and familiar and then he was thrusting helplessly, his processor signals reduced to little more than _wantneedtake_. Optimus gripped him, supporting his weight and hummed in encouragement, a low harmonic tone which resonated against the scout’s spark chamber, sending waves of bliss buzzing through his circuits until he seized and jerked in overload.

He rested his helm against Prime’s shoulder guard, venting deeply. Part of him was disgusted at the way he’d overloaded, fast and uncontrolled, like a protoform not even used to his plating, but he supposed it was for the best. The time gap between Optimus and his scout was a wide one, it might seem less suspicious.

Optimus was stroking the space between the scout’s doors, silent.

_“I should go.”_

“That would likely be for the best.”

He eased free and a wash of lubricant gushed down Prime’s legs. He’d have to remember to clean the scout’s body. Numb, he gathered himself up, mumbling some sort of respectful farewell and something about how Prime should recharge, and made for the exit.

“Bumblebee?”

He paused at the door, but didn’t look back.

“Thank you.”

His hand gripped the lintel, a convulsive reaction.

_“You’re welcome.”_

He stalked down the corridor in the direction of the scout’s room.

He needed to regain his own form, and quickly.


End file.
